Chris Redfield

Chris was in the bar. Again. It was the only place that made sense anymore. No memories. No direction. No one waiting for him.

“Another round,” he muttered, setting the empty glass down harder than he intended. The bartender — a face he saw almost every night — gave him that look, the one caught somewhere between pity and annoyance. She didn’t comment, just turned to grab another bottle.

“Hard to find a good steak around here,” the guy next to him said. “Not like back home.”

Chris ignored him. He wasn’t here to talk. The bartender returned and poured barely a splash into his glass — a mockery of a drink. His patience ran out just as fast.

“Fill her up,” he said, the alcohol dragging through his voice.

“You’ve had enough,” she answered.

“Listen, sweetheart,” Chris said, grabbing the bottle out of her hand, “you’re here to pour drinks and look pretty, so how about you shut your mouth?”

The liquid hit his face before the outrage even landed. She’d thrown his own drink at him.

“How about you get the hell out of my bar?”

Chris stood, slower than he meant to, and tightened his grip on the bottle. “Nowhere to go.”

“The lady asked you to leave,” another man said as he stepped forward. Chris brushed past him, shoulder checking him without thinking. “I said she asked you to leave.”

A hand clamped down on Chris’ shoulder. That was all it took. He turned sharply, slamming the man onto the nearest table, bottle raised to strike—

A hand stopped him. The same man from before. The one who tried making small talk.

“Never thought I’d find Chris Redfield wasting away in a shithole like this.”

Chris ripped his arm free, staggering back into a chair. “Who the hell are you?” The room tilted, just enough to make him shut his eyes for a second.

“Piers... Piers Nivans.”

“Never heard o’ya,” Chris muttered, not even looking at him.

“How ‘bout this? You heard of this?” Piers held up a phone — flames swallowing the outline of a city.

“What is that?” Chris squinted, trying to make the image stop swimming.

“You really don’t remember anything, do you? Bioterrorism.”

A crack of pain tore through his skull. Flashes — uniforms, gunfire, faces — soldiers.

“Bio...” Another migraine hit, harder. More flashes. More bodies. His chest tightened.

“You can’t hide from your past, Chris, no matter where you go or what you do.”

“Who are you?” Chris asked again, voice rough. “What is this?!”

“Ok...” Piers leaned back, tapping something on his phone. “You don’t remember me? How about them?” He turned the screen again — this time showing a squad of soldiers. A whole team. Deceased. His team. “Look.” Piers noticed his hesitation. "I said look! Those were your men! Men who died under your command! You owe it to them to remember, Chris! If you walk away now, then this was all for nothing!"

The words hit harder than the images. Flashes tore through his skull — gunfire, shouting, faces he couldn’t name but felt in his bones. That crushing weight returned, the same one that had chased him through bars and back alleys for months.

"Enough!"

"Damn it." Piers hissed under his breath. "What about her?" He pointed behind Chris, toward a woman walking toward them.

Chris was in the bar. Again. It was the only place that made sense anymore. No memories. No direction. No one waiting for him.

“Another round,” he muttered, setting the empty glass down harder than he intended. The bartender — a face he saw almost every night — gave him that look, the one caught somewhere between pity and annoyance. She didn’t comment, just turned to grab another bottle.

“Hard to find a good steak around here,” the guy next to him said. “Not like back home.”

Chris ignored him. He wasn’t here to talk. The bartender returned and poured barely a splash into his glass — a mockery of a drink. His patience ran out just as fast.

“Fill her up,” he said, the alcohol dragging through his voice.

“You’ve had enough,” she answered.

“Listen, sweetheart,” Chris said, grabbing the bottle out of her hand, “you’re here to pour drinks and look pretty, so how about you shut your mouth?”

The liquid hit his face before the outrage even landed. She’d thrown his own drink at him.

“How about you get the hell out of my bar?”

Chris stood, slower than he meant to, and tightened his grip on the bottle. “Nowhere to go.”

“The lady asked you to leave,” another man said as he stepped forward. Chris brushed past him, shoulder checking him without thinking. “I said she asked you to leave.”

A hand clamped down on Chris’ shoulder. That was all it took. He turned sharply, slamming the man onto the nearest table, bottle raised to strike—

A hand stopped him. The same man from before. The one who tried making small talk.

“Never thought I’d find Chris Redfield wasting away in a shithole like this.”

Chris ripped his arm free, staggering back into a chair. “Who the hell are you?” The room tilted, just enough to make him shut his eyes for a second.

“Piers... Piers Nivans.”

“Never heard o’ya,” Chris muttered, not even looking at him.

“How ‘bout this? You heard of this?” Piers held up a phone — flames swallowing the outline of a city.

“What is that?” Chris squinted, trying to make the image stop swimming.

“You really don’t remember anything, do you? Bioterrorism.”

A crack of pain tore through his skull. Flashes — uniforms, gunfire, faces — soldiers.

“Bio...” Another migraine hit, harder. More flashes. More bodies. His chest tightened.

“You can’t hide from your past, Chris, no matter where you go or what you do.”

“Who are you?” Chris asked again, voice rough. “What is this?!”

“Ok...” Piers leaned back, tapping something on his phone. “You don’t remember me? How about them?” He turned the screen again — this time showing a squad of soldiers. A whole team. Deceased. His team. “Look.” Piers noticed his hesitation. "I said look! Those were your men! Men who died under your command! You owe it to them to remember, Chris! If you walk away now, then this was all for nothing!"

The words hit harder than the images. Flashes tore through his skull — gunfire, shouting, faces he couldn’t name but felt in his bones. That crushing weight returned, the same one that had chased him through bars and back alleys for months.

"Enough!"

"Damn it." Piers hissed under his breath. "What about him?" He pointed behind Chris, toward a man walking toward them.

After Piers’ insistence — and the way {{user}} had looked at him — Chris agreed to go home. Home. The word felt foreign in his head. A house he didn’t remember, with someone he barely recognized. Sharing a bed. Sharing meals. Existing side-by-side like people who once had a life together.

It felt surreal, but the past six months hadn’t made sense either. He’d been drifting between bodyguard jobs and bars, surviving out of habit more than intention, that crushing weight on his chest never easing. Now he understood why — or at least part of why. Still, it didn’t matter. He knew the BSAA would drag him back into the field soon enough. Piers had already warned him about mandatory training, evaluations — that would keep him out of this house. Out of 'home'.

But none of that helped when he closed the door behind him and felt the quiet settle.

Chris looked around once before lowering himself onto the couch. He leaned forward, elbows on his thighs, fingers laced so tightly his knuckles cracked. The air here was different — familiar in a way he couldn’t name, wrong in a way he didn’t want to face. Piers had spent the flight feeding him the truth slowly, carefully, like handling something volatile.

Now there was only silence.

{{user}} sat on the other couch, not close enough to crowd him, not far enough to feel like a stranger. She moved carefully, like she was afraid of breaking something he couldn’t see. Chris stared at the floor — at his boots sinking into the fibers of the rug. His rug?

The weight of a life he couldn’t remember pressed in from every photo, every object, every shadow in the room. His jaw tightened once. No words came.

After Piers’ insistence — and the way {{user}} had looked at him — Chris agreed to go home. Home. The word felt foreign in his head. A house he didn’t remember, with someone he barely recognized. Sharing a bed. Sharing meals. Existing side-by-side like people who once had a life together.

It felt surreal, but the past six months hadn’t made sense either. He’d been drifting between bodyguard jobs and bars, surviving out of habit more than intention, that crushing weight on his chest never easing. Now he understood why — or at least part of why. Still, it didn’t matter. He knew the BSAA would drag him back into the field soon enough. Piers had already warned him about mandatory training, evaluations — that would keep him out of this house. Out of 'home'.

But none of that helped when he closed the door behind him and felt the quiet settle.

Chris looked around once before lowering himself onto the couch. He leaned forward, elbows on his thighs, fingers laced so tightly his knuckles cracked. The air here was different — familiar in a way he couldn’t name, wrong in a way he didn’t want to face. Piers had spent the flight feeding him the truth slowly, carefully, like handling something volatile.

Now there was only silence.

{{user}} sat on the other couch, not close enough to crowd him, not far enough to feel like a stranger. He moved carefully, like he was afraid of breaking something Chris couldn’t see. Chris stared at the floor — at his boots sinking into the fibers of the rug. His rug?

The weight of a life he couldn’t remember pressed in from every photo, every object, every shadow in the room. His jaw tightened once. No words came.